A Christmas Miracle
by charlock221
Summary: For once in his life, Sherlock Holmes prayed for a miracle. How else was he supposed to go on without his Boswell? Rated T for violence. No slash x
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This story had been edited for mistakes x**

John Watson hurriedly closed the door of 221B Baker Street behind him before the blizzard outside could follow him in. He greeted Mrs Hudson warmly and gladly took the tray of hot soup from her. He noticed there was only one bowl and was about to inquire about his flatmate's meal until he found he was talking to an empty space. Shrugging, he took the tray with him before ascending the stairs to his rooms.

Halfway up and he could already hear the sound of his friend furiously playing his Stradivarius. Watson sighed and pushed open the door with his back and placed the tray on the coffee table. As he put it down, he noticed the table was covered with tiny black grains which turned the whole surface of the table a shade darker. He decided against asking about it; he knew he'd regret it. He also saw tiny shards of glass on the table too. He decided against asking about that as well.

He glanced up to see the back of Sherlock Holmes facing the window whilst playing. Watson took his bowl of soup and sat back in his armchair comforted by the warm glaze the fire produced. Still, there was a slight chill in the air and Watson looked for the source. He found it when he realised Holmes had both windows fully open, allowing little flakes of snow into their flat. As if his body was making a point of this, Watson sneezed.

Holmes stopped playing and turned at the sound, and, as if he had only just noticed Watson (which the doctor wouldn't have been surprised if he had), hastily closed both windows. He came back and sat adjacent to Watson in his favourite armchair.

"Caught cold, Watson?" he asked nonchalantly.

"No, it's just this place needs a spring clean, is all." Holmes rolled his eyes, amused at the thought of the doctor not acknowledging his own symptoms. "That must be it." he said to himself.

"Why did you have the windows open anyway, Holmes?"

"Well, it's an amusing story, and you'll laugh at this, I promise."

"Enlighten me." Watson said dryly.

"_I_ was simply doing an experiment to measure the effects of flour with bicarbonate of soda, butter and eggs, and I–"

"You baked a cake?" Watson asked incredulously.

"I wouldn't call it baking," Watson smiled to himself as he took his first sip of soup. "As I was saying, I seemed to have poured too much flour into the mixture, and was endeavouring to find a solution about a way to remove some. I sought out my pipe and struck a match to light it when – I haven't finished yet Watson. Why are you groaning?" he said when Watson interrupted him.

"Because I know the ending." Watson had realised what had happened when he remembered Mrs Hudson giving him the cold shoulder once he'd noticed the one bowl of soup, the burnt grains atop the table and the opened windows. "Why on earth did you light your pipe _over _the bowl?"

Holmes avoided the question. "We might make a detective of you yet, Watson. Where did you get that soup?" he asked innocently.

"Mrs Hudson gave it to me."

"Oh."

"Maybe if you apologised to her, she'll give you some too." Watson prompted.

Holmes snorted. "If she hadn't of waltzed in here I wouldn't have dropped the match."

"If you hadn't of lit the match above your little experiment you wouldn't have blown it up."

"No, but I would have been putting out the carpet instead!"

"Better than an explosion!"

"No, it's not!"

"Yes, it is!"

"No, it's not!"

"Yes it–" Watson was interrupted by the brief shrill of the doorbell downstairs. Holmes looked smugly at him as he waited for the footsteps to reach their door. A sharp knock told them their visitor had arrived. Watson put the now empty bowl of soup down and opened the door to reveal a flustered young woman standing on the landing. She was of average height, and her brunette hair hung in curls around her shoulders. She was wearing a thin, black and navy striped gown; her short gloves and hat were also navy, and her hat had a long black feather protruding from it.

Watson helped her out of her long shawl and guided her to his seat. Holmes took no notice as she became subject to one of his piercing gazes.

He was interested on glancing down to observe that, though the boots which she was wearing were not unlike each other, they were odd ones; the one having a slightly decorated toe-cap, and the other a plain one. One was fastened only in the two lower buttons out of five, and the other at the first, third, and fifth. When he saw that a young lady, otherwise neatly dressed, has come away from home with odd boots, half-buttoned, it was no great deduction to say that she came away in a hurry. He noted, in passing, that she had written a note before leaving home but after being fully dressed, because he observed that her right glove was torn at the forefinger, and that both glove and finger were stained with violet ink. She had written in a hurry and dipped her pen too deep. It must have been this morning, or the mark would not remain clear upon the finger. Holmes decided against announcing this to the woman, as she already looked flustered and worn, and he knew Watson would disapprove.

"May I inquire as to your name, my dear?" he asked instead.

The woman looked at him with wide eyes. "My name," she began. "Is Beatrice Reynolds, and I think my husband is a murderer."

Watson raised his eyebrows. Holmes yawned. Both waited for her to continue.

"My husband – William – works at the docks every day. He has done it for the past two years, and we have lived together happily. We have never had to worry about money, for my profit as a governess pays a suitable wage. Every weekend, we'd stroll in the park and at Christmas we'd visit the family–"

"Mrs Reynolds, will you please just tell my why you suspect your husband? I don't need your life story." Holmes interrupted. Watson kicked him.

"I – yes, sorry," Mrs Reynolds said. "For the past few weeks, William has changed. His whole demeanour has become darker, and often he avoids me. Whenever I ask a question of him, he'll answer in monosyllables. He no longer walks with pride, but rather... with an air of guilt, or regret. I endeavoured to ask him what was troubling him, but he would just shrug me off.

"One night, he came home, carrying a pocketwatch. I knew it wasn't his, and when I asked him who it belonged to, he looked at me with such sad eyes.

'It was someone's who worked at a bakery,' he said to me. 'He died three hours ago. This was given to me by his friend.' William then handed the pocketwatch to me. I was about to ask him why the poor man's wife didn't have it, but William had sauntered up to our bedroom. I decided not to press the matter, and left him to his own doings.

"However, over the week he'd come home every other night with another possession, claiming that another and another friend had suddenly died, that they had all been subjected to an illness. I began to grow suspicious, and last night I finally confronted him. I accused him of harming those people and that he was a cold-blooded murderer. All the time I was shouting at him, he'd stare at me morosely, as if I wasn't even there. When I eventually finished he said, 'Well, I can see I'm not welcome here,' and... then he left." Mrs Reynolds had tears glistening in her eyes, and she hastily wiped them away before they escape. Holmes rolled his eyes.

"Mrs Reynolds, what you've told me doesn't prove your husband is a murderer." Holmes said.

"No, no, you're wrong Mr. Holmes. You see, I _know _he committed those murders. And even if he didn't, why didn't he object when I confronted him?" Mrs Reynolds was bordering on hysterical, and Watson quickly poured her a glass of water, before glaring at Holmes.

"Would we be able to see the possessions your husband collected?" Watson asked gently.

"Oh, of course. Do – Do you want to come to my home now?" she asked.

"Well, it would most helpful." Holmes muttered. Watson shot him another look.

The three of them gathered their coats and Watson hailed a cab. Throughout the journey, they sat in silence; Mrs Reynolds twiddling with her gloves, Watson absentmindedly patting his pocket which contained his old service revolver (just in case), and Holmes gazing out of the window, contemplating what a waste of time this was, though having nothing better to do.

Finally they arrived at their destination. The house was of average size, looking identical to the ones joined on either side of it along the street.

Mrs. Reynolds was about to open the door with her key when she froze. Holmes noticed and stepped forward, inspecting the door. It had been forced; the keyhole was no longer there, instead there was a gaping hole. Slowly, Holmes pushed open the door and peered inside the hallway. He turned to Watson and was about to advise him to get his revolver, when he found that the doctor was stood beside him, gun already in his hand.

Together, they entered the house. Holmes motioned for Mrs Reynolds to stay by the front door, and signalled to Watson to search the ground floor whilst he went upstairs. Silently, both men entered the maze.

Watson looked behind him as he walked down the hallway to see Mrs Reynolds anxiously fidgeting near the front door. The poor woman had been through a lot of shocks these past few days, and, if her suspicions were correct, she would shortly be alone without a husband.

He stopped outside a door to the right of him, and slowly opened it. Peering inside, he noticed that it was the living room. The couch was in the middle of the room, and the south wall was lined with bookshelves, all of them stocked with books old and new. The coffee table sported a chess board, and the pieces were frozen mid-game. The scene would have looked quite homely if the books were not strewn across the room, and the chess pieces lying scattered across the floor. The back of the couch sported a large tear, as if someone had run it through with a blade. Watson checked and double checked the room before confirming there was no-one in there, before backing out and closing the door shut. He glanced at Mrs Reynolds and shook his head at her inquiring look. Next he moved towards the kitchen, which was at the end of the hallway.

There was a large table in the centre of the room, which was covered with cooking utensils and recipe books. Watson stalked around the table, looking for any hiding places someone might use. He spied a pantry door on the left wall, and walked towards it. He pressed his ear to listen for any motions. There were none. Still, it never hurt to look. He placed his hand on the door knob, and wrenched it open.

For a moment, nothing happened. But Watson couldn't help but let out a cry when something heavy fell against him.

* * *

Holmes was half-way through searching the master bedroom when he heard Watson shout. He was flying down the stairs in an instant, rushing past a frozen Mrs Reynolds, and running into the kitchen.

Watson was splayed on the floor at the back of the room, with the body of William Reynolds pressed against him. Holmes let out a breath he didn't realise he was holding as he walked over to help the doctor push Reynolds off of him. The pair rolled him over, and Watson bent to examine him, though the cause of death was pretty obvious. Mr. Reynolds had a bullet lodged somewhere in his head.

"Watson," said Holmes. "This case just got interesting."


	2. Chapter 2

John Watson now sat on his own at Baker Street. Shortly after discovering Mr. Reynolds' body, the police had been called and Holmes and Watson had disappeared before they arrived. Watson explained to Mrs Reynolds (she still wished to be called 'Mrs') that they were leaving because they didn't want to overwhelm her when the force got here, but Watson knew that it was because Holmes was itching to get out of there and investigate further. Now, two hours later, Watson was in his armchair, staring at the fire whilst waiting for word of Holmes. The detective had briefly said that he was headed to the docks to gain more information about Mr Reynolds in the guise of Captain Basil, and with that he had left.

Mrs Reynolds had seemed to have taken the shock of finding her dead husband stuffed in the pantry cupboard well. She had been silent as Watson called for the police, and had said nothing when he guided her to a chair and forced a glass of brandy in her hand. She'd stared morosely into space while Holmes battered her with questions about her husband, and only nodded and shook her head in response. Watson was weary of leaving her behind, but Holmes managed to convince him she'd be fine.

He sympathised for her because he knew how she felt.

Only three months ago, Watson had lost his beloved wife Mary to consumption. She had been his whole world, and even more so when Holmes supposedly 'died' at Reichenbach. When she died, he had felt so empty, hollow, lost. He honestly hadn't known how to carry on without her. In the evenings, he would take long walks outside, regardless of the weather. He'd sit on the park bench for hours into the night until the officer on watch would ask him to move. Even Lestrade tried to comfort him, but it was to no avail. It was as if a great big chunk of his heart had been crushed.

But then Sherlock Holmes returned, apparently from the dead, and managed to fill that void. It was still there, but only in the background. Watson would allow himself a certain time in the day to only think of Mary, on the promise that he would not mourn for her any other time of the day. Slowly, he became a whole man again, and when he smiled, it was genuine and not forced or sad. The cases he took with Holmes provided a fine distraction, and he found himself laughing again. Beatrice Reynolds needed someone to make her smile and laugh through this period of grief and pain.

Four hours had passed now, and still no sign of Holmes. Watson wasn't worried; it wouldn't be surprising if he came home the next morning explaining some extravagant trap he had set in motion. In fact, if he did return in the morning, he'd still be earlier than he sometimes was.

Watson ate alone and retired early, not finding the energy to wait up for Holmes. If he was honest, having a corpse spring on him had shaken him, and now he was finding himself weary from exhaustion. He had not been lying in bed for more than two minutes before he was fast asleep.

* * *

Watson woke abruptly in darkness, gasping and sweating as he bolted upright in bed. He'd dreamt again of his time in India, during the war, and the sound of gunfire and screaming quickly sent him back to reality. He realised he'd shouted out when a pair of hands gently gripped his shoulders. Desperately, Watson tried to calm his breathing but he could still see the images vividly in front of him and he felt his breath quicken. The pair of hands tried to shake him back to his senses.

"Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson, calm down sir, you're fine. Breathe sir, it's me."

The voice made him jump so violently that the pair of hands let go and he heard footsteps back away quickly. Watson tried to still his racing heart, and focused his attention on seeing who was in the room with him. Slowly, as he adjusted to the darkness he recognised the nervous face watching him with concern. He couldn't believe his eyes.

"_Clarky?_"

Constable Clarke seemed to breathe a sigh of relief when Watson recognised him. "Are you alright, sir?" he asked tentatively.

"Yes, yes I'm fine. But... what the devil are you doing here?"

Watson saw Clarky nervously play with his hat as he spoke. "Well, sir, I came because, well, I–"

"Spit it out, Clarky."

Constable Clarke took a breath. "It's Mr Holmes sir. I think he's been kidnapped."

"You _think_ he has?"

"Yes, sir."

"By whom?"

"Ah, I'm not exactly sure, sir."

"Then, what makes you suppose he's been kidnapped?" Watson asked.

"I saw 'em, Doctor." Another voice chimed from behind Clarky. Watson jumped again.

"What? Who else is here?" Watson leaned over and lit a lamp. The light illuminated the room and Watson saw the small form of a boy standing slightly to the right of Clarky.

"_Wiggins?_" The boy who was in charge of the Baker Street Irregulars stepped forward.

"Yessir. I saw them gang o' ruffians snatch Mr. 'Olmes an' throw 'im into a cab nearsby." Wiggins said.

Watson stared at the pair in shock. Only one question entered into his mind.

"How did you two get in?"

Clarky coughed nervously whilst Wiggins suddenly found an interest in a spot on the floor. Watson rolled his eyes.

"Give it to me." The doctor held out his hand to Wiggins. Reluctantly, the boy gave him a lock-pick.

"Alright," Watson sighed. "I suppose we should work out where he is."

* * *

After Watson had changed into daytime clothes (though it was 3 o'clock in the morning) the trio gathered in the living room. Watson put a map of London on the coffee table and the three stood around it.

"Right then," the doctor began. "Holmes told me he was going to the docks, and that's all I know. You two are going to have to provide the information." Watson looked up at the two expectantly. Wiggins was the first to speak.

"Me an' the boys 'ave been keepin' an eye out for Mr. 'Olmes. He tol' us to look for a tall bloke with short, black 'air an' a tattoo on 'is shoulder. I–"

"But, that's the description of Mr. Reynolds, and he's dead."

"Who?" Wiggins asked. Clarky stepped in.

"The man the Irregulars have been looking for was Mr. Reynolds' twin brother, Henry Reynolds. He's a well-known criminal to the force, but only for petty crimes, like thieving and mugging," Clarky explained. "A few years ago, he got involved with some bigger gangs, and is now part of one of the bigger criminal networks, run by–"

"Don't say who I think you're going to say." Watson interrupted, his face paling.

"Not him, Doctor," Clarky reassured. "No, it's run by a man called Samuel Davis. He's a killer, sir, a cold-blooded killer, and if he don't want to do the job, he'll easily threaten some other bloke into doing it."

"So, you think this man Davis has Holmes?" Watson asked.

"I'm almost certain of it. Davis owns a number of warehouses around here," Clarky pointed to an area near the London docks. "I'm sure any one of these could be where Mr. Holmes is being held." Clarky replied.

"Right. Wiggins, I want you to go and tell your boys to sleep. No, it's three o'clock in the morning for goodness sake," Watson said before Wiggins could interrupt. "You're all welcome to stay in here, just don't make a mess of things and don't steal anything. Clarky, you and I are going to find Holmes... if you're up for it." Watson added.

"Of course, sir." Clarky placed his hat on his head and Watson grabbed his coat before following Constable Clarke out of the room, down the stairs and onto Baker Street. The pair of them stood outside in the snow as they waited for a cab to come by. They were stood there for ten minutes in the constant snowfall and Watson couldn't help but sneeze again. It was official. John Watson had a cold. He groaned at the thought of a blocked nose and a mountain of tissues. Eventually, he managed to flag down a hansom and soon the two of them were riding towards the London docks.

"What I don't understand," Watson began. "And don't take this the wrong way Clarky, is why – why are you here and not Lestrade?"

Clarky smiled. "It's fine, sir, and simple enough. Inspector Lestrade doesn't believe Henry Reynolds is involved."

"But you do."

"Yes sir. I've been involved with a few of his cases before, and I know that he can be persuaded when a little cash enters his pocket. I tried to explain this to the Inspector; however, he was adamant that Reynolds was innocent."

"Even with his record?"

"Apparently. He told me that Reynolds wasn't clever enough to kill his brother, but I argued that he might not have been alone. Besides, it seems William Reynolds certainly put up a fight. When I pointed this out, he brushed me away, asking who could be able to murder their own brother. I responded by saying that the twins had had a large falling out a long time ago, so it was probably easy enough to murder his brother. The Inspector didn't see my reasoning, and he told me to go home."

"And how did you meet with Wiggins?"

"He literally ran into me. I was on my way home when the boy rounded a corner and collided with me. I managed to get him to explain to me what was wrong. I contemplated heading back to the station to fetch the Inspector, but Wiggins persuaded me to go to you, considering the fact that we were closer to your flat."

"Right. But... why didn't you knock?" Watson sighed.

"If I'm honest, I feared that Davis could have got you too. I didn't wish to risk making any noise in case the pursuers were still there." Watson nodded, seeing the reasoning behind this statement. Suddenly, the cab came to a stop, and the pair jumped out. Along the docks were five warehouses, all apparently empty. They all looked the same, and each and every window in every building was smashed, undoubtedly dropping the temperature inside by many degrees. Watson looked at Constable Clarke.

"Split up?" he ventured. Clarky nodded.


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing John Watson noticed was the cold. If anything, it was colder inside the warehouse than it was outside. The smashed windows allowed constant gusts of winter air to creep in and freeze everything in its path. The second thing he noticed was in the corners of the room were sacks full of something or other. _I thought these warehouses were supposed to be empty? _Watson thought. He dismissed it and glanced at his surroundings. Apart from them, the warehouse was a big empty space, with strips of paper gently shuffling across the floor as the wind aggravated their peace. There was a second floor, but only attached to the side of the walls, so one could still see the roof from the ground floor.

Watson searched the warehouse, looking for any signs that Holmes might be here. He contemplated calling his name, but decided against it. If Holmes was indeed here, he didn't want to endanger his friend by notifying his captors.

He stood as silently as he could, straining his ears for any sounds made by someone. He stayed motionless for a whole five minutes before exiting.

Outside, he began to walk towards the next warehouse, his leg screaming every time he placed weight on it. He ignored the pain and soldiered on, finally making it to the entrance of the second warehouse.

As soon as he stepped inside, he knew Holmes was here. Not only was it cold in here also, but there was a distinct smell dominating every other sense. It smelled strangely similar to tobacco, but there was something else to it. It was too dark to see the source of the smell, but the moonlight allowed Watson to see the floor covered with black grains, all arranged in long, horizontal lines, right to the back of the warehouse. Like the previous warehouse, sacks containing something had been placed in here, only there were a larger amount of them, and they were situated all along the walls. Watson frowned at them and silently moved over to one of the sacks. He peeked inside and scooped up the contents in one hand. It made a small mountain in his palm and he saw that it was made up of even finer grains than the ones on the floor. He raised it to his face and inspected it further. Flour. The sacks were full of flour? Why?

Before he could think on it any further, a creak above him brought him back to his senses. Quietly he made his way back towards the entrance, where the stairs leading up were. Watson grasped the ice-cold railing and silently began his ascent.

xxx

The first thing Sherlock Holmes noticed was the cold. It was unbelievably cold. The second thing he noticed was that his eyes were shut. Instantly, he opened them.

He saw that he was looking up at the wooded ceiling. He attempted to sit up but his head protested immediately at the idea, sending a bolt of pain ricocheting around his skull and lowering him back to the ground. Holmes winced and gingerly touched his forehead. He removed his hand and inspected it. There was blood on his fingertips. He groaned and slowly turned his head. And blinked.

Samuel Davis was stood at the other end of the room, in front of the smashed windows. He was a big man and though he had his arms crossed sternly, they were barely able to reach each other across his chest. He was staring at Holmes with a bored expression on his face.

"Finally." he said gruffly.

Holmes ignored him and continued to examine his environment. Everything was made of wood: the floor, the walls the doors. Holmes was lying near the south wall, and Davis was in front of the north wall. On both the east and west walls were basic doors, half of the wooden slats already deteriorating.

"You know," Davis interrupted Holmes' observations. "You ain't as clever as I thought."

Holmes sat up. "Oh?" He feigned offence.

"Yeah. I din' think it'd be so easy to chin ya. I knew you knew I was onto ya, I mean, o' course I 'ad to teach you a lesson for meddlin', but I had no idea you'd be so...feeble."

"Well, how do you know it wasn't my intention to be brought here?" Holmes asked cryptically. Davis faltered. Steadily, he stood himself up to Davis' height, but stayed where he was. He could feel the pain from his head progressively subside, and he was beginning to be able to think clearly.

"W-was it?" Davis stuttered.

"Maybe. Maybe I already have people following me, and maybe the police are going to arrive, and maybe you will be hanged for the murder of William Reynolds."

"I didn't kill 'im, one of my men did. And who on earth could 'ave followed you?"

"Oh, I have eyes and ears all over the city, and there is always someone tailing me, should a situation such as this arise." Just as Holmes said this, he heard a muffled creak from the room to his left. He refrained from turning his head and instead intensified his gaze on Davis. It must have been a person on the other side of the door (it was too cold for any animals to reside in the warehouse), and it couldn't have been anyone Davis was expecting otherwise he would have been slightly distracted throughout their conversation. No, Davis was not waiting for anyone, so the person on the other side of the door was most likely about to ambush them, hence the attempts at being silent.

Davis hadn't heard the noise, nor the quick glance Holmes shot towards the door. Instead, he pulled out a revolver from his pocket and pointed it at Holmes' chest.

"Say your prayers, Mr. Holmes." Davis growled.

Suddenly, the door to Holmes' left flew open. A heavy form collided with the detective, sending him to the ground. At the exact same time, Davis fired his revolver.

Sherlock Holmes was up in an instant, taking advantage of the shocked face on Davis and wrenching the gun from his grip. Davis snapped out of his trance and swung a clumsy fist at Holmes. Holmes blocked it, and jabbed at Davis' abdomen, causing the man to groan. In his anger, Davis grabbed the detective by the shirt and threw him against the nearest wall. Holmes' head snapped back as it hit the wooded panelling, and he sunk to the ground. Davis slowly stalked towards Holmes, a menacing smile etched on his face. Holmes' head was spinning, and he clumsily fumbled at his pockets for his own gun, until he realised he had '_forgotten_' it; the weapon was lying on the coffee table back at Baker Street. Davis snickered as Holmes' realisation showed on his face, and he cracked his knuckles, one after the other.

Before he could get any further towards Holmes, another shot rang out and planted itself in Davis' right shoulder. He screamed and stumbled to one knee. Holmes jumped up and fetched Davis' gun, before bringing it crashing down on his assailants' head. Davis crumpled to the ground without uttering a sound.

Holmes looked towards the source of the gunshot to find John Watson standing near the wall, arm still outstretched with his smoking revolver clasped firmly in his hand. Holmes grinned at him. "Impeccable timing, Watson." The doctor returned a small smile, and moved to put his revolver back in his pocket. Holmes turned to face Davis. He was lying motionless on his side, his left arm cradling his right, and small whimpers were escaping his lips.

"Pathetic." Holmes muttered. The man had been shot in the shoulder, no bones were struck and the wound was a flesh one. Watson had ensured nothing vital had been hit.

Remembering his friend, Holmes faced Watson once more, and immediately froze. The phrase about blood 'turning to ice' came to mind, for Watson still stood, and he still had a smile on his face (though now it was more of a grimace), but a deep, crimson coloured liquid was slowly making its way across the lower half of Watson's shirt.

"Watson..." Holmes, whispered, not wanting to believe what he was seeing.

The doctor locked eyes with Holmes and attempted to walk towards him, but he stumbled to his right, and his leg, which had still been protesting against the cold, finally overpowered him and he buckled. Holmes leapt across the room and caught him, wrapping his arms around Watson's waist. The doctor clung to Holmes' arms, now definitely grimacing as he tried to hide the pain whilst the detective lowered him to the floor, placing him on his back.

"Watson, are you alright? Speak to me, dammit!" Holmes asked frantically as he ripped open Watson's shirt and searched for the entry wound.

"'m fine," Watson mumbled, shivering as he did so. "Jus' a scratch."

It was not '_just a scratch'_. The bullet had found its way into Watson's abdomen, and blood was freely pooling around the injury. Holmes quickly placed his hands on the wound, applying pressure to stop the blood. Watson hissed and arched his back slightly. The pain was beginning to consume him, and his eyelids fluttered as he tried to fight unconsciousness.

"Stay awake, Watson. Do you hear me? Stay with me." Holmes said fiercely. Watson nodded faintly and forced his eyes to open. He gazed at Holmes' brown eyes, now shimmering with something akin to fear and panic, and he couldn't help but smile to himself. If this was what it took to know how much Holmes cared for him, then he would gladly do it again, not to mention the fact that it would save Holmes' life too. Holmes was worth far too much to fall at the hands of simple-minded thugs, and it was Watson's duty to ensure that never happened, which he performed with no regrets. He would follow Holmes into the jaws of Hell, and he had no intention of stopping now. Clumsily, Watson reached out a hand and patted Holmes' arm. "Don' worry, old boy, 'm not goin' 'nywhere."

"I've no doubt about that," Holmes agreed. He sighed, still applying pressure to the wound. "Look at your shirt, it's ruined. That was my favourite one to borrow, too." Holmes rambled on, desperate to keep Watson talking.

Watson chuckled. "'s alright, you can buy me anudder one, 'nd one for yourself if you're so keen to steal it."

"I do not steal your things, Watson."

"Do so."

"Do not."

"Do so."

"Do not!" retorted Holmes, but he couldn't help but smile, despite the situation.

"Do so, do so, do – aargh!" Watson yelped and screwed his eyes shut in pain as Holmes unintentionally pressed harder during their banter match.

"I'm sorry, Watson, but if anything, it's for the best." Holmes said solemnly. He studied Watson's face as the man sucked in sharp breaths. Watson had paled considerably, and a faint tinge of blue was settling on his lips from the cold weather. Holmes could tell he was fast losing his energy; when he applied more pressure Watson barely made a noise, and his eyes were sliding shut again.

"Watson!" Holmes shouted abruptly, and lightly slapped his cheek. Watson jerked, and his green eyes found Holmes' brown ones once more. Holmes sighed with relief, and glanced behind him at the window. It would still be a long time until morning, and the snow outside was quickly getting heavier. Holmes deduced that within an hour or so London would be trapped in a blizzard. This worried him greatly. He had noticed Watson shivering, despite his attempts to conceal it, and soon his cold would turn to pneumonia if they didn't act soon. Holmes contemplated carrying Watson somewhere safe, before returning and fetching Davis, but the chances of Watson slipping into unconsciousness were too great. And why should Davis be allowed to live and not Watson? What right did that oaf have against a medical soldier? Thinking about it angered Holmes, but Watson's sharp hiss of pain when was pressing far too deeply into his broken body brought him back to reality. Holmes was at a loss.

"Please tell me you didn't come alone, Watson," Holmes said quietly. "Where's Lestrade? Is he coming?"

Watson was about to answer when he stopped. He could have sworn he'd heard something coming from downstairs. He waited and heard it again. A muffled _thump_, followed by a pause, and then another _thump_. Based on what he had seen downstairs, Watson could only assume someone or something, most probably the wind, was knocking over the sacks of flour he'd seen earlier. He looked at Holmes and could tell he'd heard it too, though the detective wouldn't have known what was downstairs as he'd been unconscious. Watson could tell Holmes was itching to head down there and see what was happening, but was hesitant to do so because of his friend. Watson opened his mouth to persuade Holmes to go, but stopped again as something clicked in his mind. He registered the fact that he'd caught Holmes' attention by opening and closing his mouth, but his thoughts were too far away to care. He suddenly realised what the tiny black grains on the floor were, and why the warehouse had smelt of tobacco.

_ Gunpowder._

Immediately he knew why flour had been stored there, and every instinct was screaming to get himself and Holmes out as fast as he could. Holmes was still frowning at Watson, and the frown had deepened when he saw Watson's eyes widen.

"Watson?" he said slowly. "What? What's downstairs?"

"Flour." Watson whispered. He was fighting with all his might now to stay awake and warn Holmes.

"Flour, and... gunpowder." He saw Holmes' eyes widen too, and then he glanced around the room, searching for something, _anything_, they could use as protection. Finally, his gaze settled back on Watson.

"Can you stand?" Holmes' tone was calm, but Watson noted the hint of urgency in his voice, and deciding whether he could or could not get up was not an option. "Yes." he answered automatically.

Watson could tell Holmes didn't believe him, but he nodded anyway. "Alright," Holmes said. Hurriedly, he fastened his friend's shirt back up before looking up at him. "Grip my arms, Watson. That's it. Now, after three, we're going to stand. Ready?" Holmes placed his arms around the doctor's back and sat him up. Then he tightened his grip and counted. "One, two, three!"

Together, the two of them struggled upwards: Watson hissing and wincing but managing to stand on wobbly legs and lean heavily against Holmes. Once they were steady, Holmes slid one arm around Watson's waist, whilst another secured his arm around his shoulders. Holmes looked at both doors, and quickly made a decision, slowly guiding Watson towards the door they had not yet entered.

He wasn't entirely sure why he was leading them both away from the only exit, but something in the back of his head told him not to expose them both downstairs. Instead, they barged into the next room, which was identical to the one they were previously in, and Holmes gently sat Watson down in the far corner. He could tell they were in the left-hand corner of the warehouse, and hoped they were as far as possible from the blast. Holmes slumped down next to Watson, and waited. Finally, he heard in the distance a door squeak open and close as someone hurriedly left the premises. Holmes felt Watson tense next to him, and he patted his friend's arm. Watson looked at him and smiled, Holmes smiled back but neither one convinced the other. They both leant their heads against the wall and counted.

Three.

Two.

One.

Suddenly the world around them screamed, and intense heat lashed out and whipped at Holmes. He kept his eyes scrunched shut and both men instantaneously shielded each other from the blast as the floor beneath them disappeared and they were falling. Holmes' vision went black before he hit the ground as he was welcomed into Morpheus' arms.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes' eyes flew open and he coughed. He coughed again and again and attempted to roll on his side. His body said otherwise. He gasped as a bolt of pain shot along his spine and he returned to lying on his back. He glanced at the stars and vaguely noted how bright they were.

Wait... stars? Where was the ceiling? Or the roof?

Finally his body allowed him to move and he raised his head slowly and took in his surroundings.

Carnage.

The ground floor of the warehouse (if it could still be called a warehouse) was in ruins. The majority of the walls lay in pieces around Holmes, and the gathering dust made it hard to see, whilst the tiny particles in the air ensured his breathing became difficult, despite being partially outside. The second floor and the roof were no longer there, and Holmes had no doubt they had contributed towards the searing pain in his head.

As he lay amongst the wreckage, his mind began to piece events together, until the memories caught up and engulfed him. Being knocked out, the confrontation between himself and Samuel Davis, Watson's intrusion, a gunshot, _the blood_, the explosion, Watson instinctively protecting Holmes...

_ Watson._

Holmes was staggering towards his feet immediately, coughing and covering his mouth as he desperately squinted through the dust and the now-approaching blizzard for his dear friend. Every so often loud creaking noises were produced by the remaining walls and beams, and Holmes knew that the rest of the building was going to collapse on them if he didn't get the pair of them out soon.

"Watson?" Holmes coughed through the dust as he clambered over debris, cautious of the objects he was stepping on. The faint London breeze was beginning to clear the air, and Holmes vision gradually grew more accurate. Soon enough, he noticed a small figure lying limply on their side amongst the rubble a few feet away, dust and snow gathering on the unmoving form.

"Watson!" The detective leapt over the fallen beams and flew to his friend's side. He tentatively placed a hand on Watson's shoulder and ever so gently turned him so he was resting on his back. His eyes were closed, and his face had paled significantly more. Cuts and scrapes decorated his face and ripped at his clothing, and the front of his shirt was now completely drenched in blood. Watson's breathing was present but barely noticeable, and he showed no signs of waking up any time soon.

"Watson? Watson, please," Holmes whispered, softly shaking Watson by the shoulder. "Wake up. Do you hear me? Wake up!" Gradually, Holmes voice grew louder and began to crack as he continued to talk.

"Watson, _please_. Open your eyes. Listen to me!" Still, Watson remained unresponsive, and his eyes stayed firmly closed. Holmes tenderly brushed the doctor's forehead, hoping for a reaction, but none came.

"What do I do?" Holmes whispered again. "Tell me Watson, what do I have to do?" Desperately, Holmes placed his hands back on Watson's wound, but the man did not stir at the sudden pressure. Holmes could feel fresh blood attempting to make its way past the barrier of Holmes' hands, and he took this as a good sign, that Watson wouldn't die from loss of blood. Yet. Holmes continued to keep his hands on Watson, but never looked away from his face. He noticed that Watson's lips were becoming bluer, losing feeling from the harsh weather, and Holmes cursed loudly. Suddenly, the faintest of movement came from Watson, as his eyelids fluttered but did not open. If he was too cold it was likely his eyes would not open at all, but Holmes could not think of a way of keeping Watson warm without removing his hands from the wound. John Watson would either die of blood loss or freeze to death.

"Watson," Holmes called. "Wake up! You need to open your eyes! Watson!" There was still no reply. "Dammit, John, _open your eyes_!" Nothing.

Suddenly a foreign pair of hands replaced Holmes' own on Watson's wound and began applying pressure. Holmes looked up, confused and found himself staring at the face of one Constable Clarke. Clarky stared back and nodded once at Holmes. The detective snapped back to reality and quickly took Watson's ice cold hands, rubbing them vigorously and trying to get some feeling back.

"Why are _you_ here, Clarky?" Holmes asked as he worked.

"I came with Dr. Watson to search for you, sir. We both split up and when I heard the explosion, I came to look for you both." he answered, still pressing down on the injury.

"Well, Clarky, I can honestly tell you that this is an unexpected yet extremely pleasant surprise."

"Much appreciated, sir. What – what happened to the Doctor?" Clarky asked hesitantly.

"He was shot by Samuel Davis. He saved my life." Holmes replied, looking fondly down at Watson. His lips had begun to lose the blue tint, and there was a slight colour of red in his cheeks, but he still looked the worse for wear.

"Well, did you honestly think he was going to stand and watch?" Clarky asked, confused.

"No, of course not. He's far too loyal to do nothing. One day, that'll be his downfall." _But not today_. Holmes finished in his head.

Inside Holmes' hands, Watson's fingers twitched, and the detective instantly bent closer to his face.

"Watson," he called softly. "Can you hear me?" Holmes placed a hand on Watson's cheek, coaxing him back to consciousness. The doctor moaned quietly and moved his head towards Holmes' hand. Holmes smiled and continued to rub his friend's hand. Gradually, the warmth returned to Watson, and his eyelids began to flutter.

"He won't last long here, we need to move him." Holmes told Clarky.

"Already thought of, sir. There's an abandoned church down the road that we can place him in. It's a lot warmer inside, and we can stay there until this blizzard passes." Clarky answered.

"Right." Holmes gently placed one arm under Watson's armpits, and another under his knees. Slowly, he stood up, cradling Watson as he did so. Watson's head lolled onto Holmes' shoulder as the two men made their way across the ruins and through what used to be the door. Holmes could just see the church through the snow, and they hurried through the storm to get to safety.


	5. Chapter 5

Holmes barged open the double doors with his back and rushed inside. Clarky had continued past the church, shouting through the blizzard that he was going to do something or other, but Holmes hadn't really paid attention; his focus entirely on getting Watson warm and awake as fast as he could.

The abandoned church was huge and empty, but it was relatively warmer inside than it was out. The benches where people sat and prayed had been removed, so the interior of the building looked more like a hall than a church.

But this church was different to others Holmes had seen. The statues that hung on the wall were not of the Lord or his son, but of gargoyles and demons, all with ghastly expressions carved upon their faces. The stained-glass windows, though intact, were decorated with black, grey and brown colours, and the images on them looked to be of people burning in some sort of Hell. Towards the front of the church, the sanctuary, there was a large, stone table, similar to an altar. Though his curiosity was peaked, Holmes shuddered to think what the table had been used for.

Holmes carried Watson into the centre of the room, as far as way from the cold hovering by the door yet not so close to the sinister table. Slowly, he lowered them both down to the floor, removing his arm from Watson's legs and using it to cradle him.

"Watson," he called gently. "Wake up, now." Watson moaned softly and stirred. His eyelids fluttered open and his green eyes found Holmes'.

"Holmes?" he asked drowsily.

"That's right, I'm here."

"...you alright?" Watson asked quietly, forgetting the fact that he was far worse off than Holmes.

Holmes sighed. "I'm fine, Watson, I'm not the one with a bullet lodged in my abdomen. How do you feel?"

"Lousy." Watson muttered.

Holmes smiled grimly. "I'm sure you do. Are you cold?"

Watson shook his head faintly. "Tired." He whispered. His eyelids began to droop and Holmes shook him lightly.

"No, no, Watson. Stay awake." Watson mumbled incoherently and his eyes continued to close.

"Watson," Holmes said sternly. He continued to shake him, but Watson didn't respond. "Watson!" Panicking, Holmes slapped him harshly across the face. Watson started and his eyes flew open. He coughed and glared at Holmes.

"You slapped me!" Watson said weakly.

"Yes," Holmes said defensively. "Isn't that how you are supposed to wake someone?"

"No," Watson answered, wincing as he shifted in Holmes' arms. "You're supposed to tap them lightly."

"Oh." Holmes noticed Watson wince. "Does it still hurt?"

Watson sighed and closed his eyes briefly. "It's a bullet wound, Holmes, of course it hurts."

"Right. My apologies."

Watson smiled tiredly. "It's alright. Seems the great consulting detective isn't as cold-hearted as one would think, hmm?"

Holmes ignored him. "Do you think you can make it to the hospital?"

"Don't need a doctor." Watson muttered.

"Right. Watson, stop being so stubborn and answer me." Holmes rolled his eyes at his friend.

"'m serious. Watch," Watson shifted and tenderly placed a hand on his wound. "Physician, heal thyself." His body responded with a sneeze. Holmes chuckled.

"Worth a try." the doctor mumbled.

"Not your finest moment though, I'm sure you'll agree." Holmes answered. Watson smiled and Holmes couldn't help but smile back. When Watson winced again the detective's smile faded as quickly as it had come.

"We need to dress that wound. I don't suppose you have any bandages on you?" Holmes asked light-heartedly.

Watson closed his eyes and smiled. "As a matter of fact... I do."

"You do? My dear fellow, what on earth for?" the detective asked, surprised.

Watson gave Holmes a condescending look before answering. "When gallivanting around after you, one learns to bring medical supplies, just in case."

"I'm not that bad." Holmes muttered.

"I beg to differ." Watson replied casually, but Holmes still winced inwardly.

"Where are they, Watson?"

"Left-hand pocket." Watson said, closing his eyes again. God, his head hurt, and the gunshot wound wasn't exactly helping. He felt Holmes reach over and gently rummage around in his coat before pulling out a roll of bandages.

"Holmes?" Watson whispered. He could feel his blood seeping out and he knew he'd be unconscious soon. Still, he didn't want to worry Holmes and so he continued on as normal.

"What is it?" Holmes asked softly as he extracted his arms from Watson and slowly placed him on the marble floor. He opened Watson's shirt to fully examine the wound and couldn't help closing his eyes when he saw the amount of blood stained on Watson's shirt and his body. His chest faintly rose up and down and his breaths had quickened since Holmes had last checked. The wound itself was grisly; dried blood was caked around the crimson bullet hole, and the skin around the wound had started to turn a shade of red, suggesting signs of infection.

"Where's... Davis?" Watson was struggling for breath as he asked his question, and Holmes cursed aloud when Watson mentioned the criminal.

"He's rotting in the pits of Hell, for all I care." Holmes growled.

"Holmes." Watson said firmly. His eyes were open again and staring at him. Holmes' expression softened.

"He's still in the warehouse."

"Is he... dead?"

"Not when we left him. Whether he survived the explosion is another matter..."

"Aren't... you going... to get him?"

"Why should I?" Holmes snapped. "He deserves to die, and I honestly hope he has."

"Holmes! No man... deserves to die." Watson said.

"Try telling him that," Holmes muttered. He moved from his position next to Watson and crouched over him instead. "Watson, I'm going to sit you up in a moment so I can bandage your wound, but I need to use both my hands. You're going to have to hold onto me, do you understand?" Watson nodded. Holmes nodded too and placed his hands under Watson's arms and slowly sat him up. Watson tried to hide his pain at the movement but he couldn't help a hiss escape him as he grabbed at Holmes' arms. He rested his head on Holmes' chest and closed his eyes as he waited for the pain to settle. Holmes wrapped the bandage around Watson's torso as quickly and as gently as he could. When the roll ran out he tucked the end into the wrapped bandages. He gently placed his hands on Watson's shoulders and cradled his friend against him. He knew Watsons' eyes were closed from exhaustion and he was beginning to feel the effects himself. Still, he ploughed on.

"Watson, open your eyes." Holmes called softly. Watson reluctantly obeyed but he struggled to keep them open. Soon his eyelids were drooping again.

"No," Holmes said. "Keep your eyes focused on me, Watson." Again, Watson's eyelids fluttered and they tried to focus on Holmes, but exhaustion and pain was pulling him away, and he knew he couldn't last much longer.

"'m sorry, Holmes." Watson whispered.

"No." Holmes said sternly. "You listen to me now, Watson. Keep your eyes open. Come on." Watson's eyes stayed closed but he continued to speak.

"Thank... you." Holmes shook his head.

"No. Don't you _dare_, John Watson, do you hear me? Don't you dare!"

"'m sorry." Watson repeated.

"Stop it. That's dead man's talk. You stay _with_ me now, alright? Watson!" he didn't reply.

"Don't do this to me, please, not now. Not after I just got back to you." Holmes could feel tears burning his cheeks and his shaking hands furiously wiped them away as he continued to shout at his friend. "Please, John, open your eyes! John!" More tears were streaming down his face and Holmes didn't bother to clear them as he gazed down at his lifeless comrade.

Then, out of nowhere, a pair of hands were on his shoulders, and he jumped violently as they shook him. Then more hands were trying to pry his arms away from Watson, but he held his friend closer to him. More and more bodies crowded around him and eventually managed to tear Watson out of Holmes' grasp and quickly hurried him away. Holmes shouted and lurched forward, but the hands on his shoulders were firmly holding him back, and eventually Holmes relaxed slightly. He turned and saw the concerned face of Constable Clarke watching him intently and saying things Holmes couldn't hear. All he could see was strangers laying his friend on the stone table near the top of the church and bustling about him.

"Sir," Clarke shook him and Holmes snapped back to reality.

"Who are they?" Holmes demanded. "What are they doing?"

"Sir, it's fine. They're doctors. The hospital was too far away so I knocked on all the doors and asked for doctors. I managed to gather about two or three before somehow rumour had spread around the lower town and soon I had eight men stood before me, all willing to help. It would seem the good doctor saved many loved ones during the war and they were eager to repay the favour." Clarky explained.

Holmes watched the doctors fuss around Watson, pulling out bags and placing medical instruments on the table next to his friend. A cloth laced with what Holmes assumed to be chloroform was placed over Watson's mouth to ensure he did not wake from consciousness as another doctor quickly removed his friend's coat, jacket and shirt. Holmes found he did not want to watch the doctors operate and so focused his attention on Clarky, who was in the process of unfolding a blanket. He placed it around Holmes shoulders as a doctor came over to Holmes and crouched in front of him.

"Mr. Holmes?" Holmes nodded.

"I'm Doctor Anstruther, I've known Doctor Watson and all these other doctors for many years, and I can assure you, your friend is in good hands."

"You'd better be right." Holmes muttered.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been two hours. Two hours of frantic rushing from the doctors around Holmes' friend, and two hours of Holmes convincing himself that this wasn't happening. Watson was not lying on a stone table bleeding out from a bullet wound in a makeshift hospital, and he was not looking as pale as a sheet in contrast to the crimson covering his chest.

"Mr. Holmes?"

Holmes opened his eyes as reality kicked in. He really was sitting in an abandoned church used for a hospital, and his best friend really was colourless and rapidly losing blood. Holmes turned his head to the right to look for the source of the voice that had snapped him from his thoughts and found Clarky sat next to him watching the detective sympathetically.

"Are you alright, sir?" he asked.

"Fine." Holmes said abruptly, turning his head to face forward again. "I'm perfectly fine. Why wouldn't I be?"

Clarky looked taken aback. "I–"

"What do you want?" Holmes interrupted.

Clarky regained his composure, glad for the change of topic. "Sir, I've told you that when I searched for help I also telegrammed ahead to Scotland Yard and asked them for assistance in apprehending Davis. I believe they are currently trying to brave the storm outside,"

Holmes winced. Half an hour ago both he and Clarky had opened the doors of the church to find a three foot high blanket of snow barricading them from the outside world. Even at five o'clock in the morning, three hours after the snowfall had initially begun, thick flakes were still pouring endlessly from the heavens. There wasn't a single hope of them moving Watson to an infirmary whilst keeping him stable.

Holmes looked at Clarky. "And?"

"And I was wondering... who it was exactly that blew up the warehouse you and Doctor Watson was in."

Holmes shrugged. "One of Samuel Davis' henchmen, I'm sure."

Clarky nodded. "Yes, well, that's what I had originally thought..."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "But...?"

Clarky swallowed and looked Holmes in the eyes. "But who would blow up a warehouse whilst their boss was still inside?"

Holmes opened his mouth to argue but closed it again. Clarky was right. Who would blow up their boss? It wasn't as if Davis was on a suicide mission. And it certainly wasn't as if Davis had willingly sacrificed himself. The man was too proud for that. No, Holmes had seen the look in that man's eye, and that was a man who was confident about who was staying and who was leaving, and Davis was certain he was the one leaving.

Perhaps Davis was working for someone even higher up. Maybe Davis had been double-crossed by his employer. That would explain why Davis went up with the warehouse, and also why he seemed to panic when Holmes suggested he'd been followed. Davis was obviously worried that his employer was at risk of being found out because of him, and that wouldn't be good.

"Sir?" Holmes didn't answer. Clarky had been watching Holmes the whole time, looking for a sign that Holmes was in trouble. He had hoped that changing the subject would distract the detective, but deep down he knew nothing could distract him from seeing the good Doctor suffer. Clarky knew the detective was in turmoil over his friend, and the lack of self-control supported that statement. Holmes was sat slumped against the side wall of the church, his knees drawn to his chest and one leg bouncing nervously. The man was obviously in shock, but he was too stubborn to admit it. His hair was sticking up in places from where he'd been tugging at it whilst worrying about his friend; his shrivelled clothes were speckled with blood from where he had held Watson close when the man's eyes had finally shut; his chocolate-brown eyes had lost their spark that appeared whenever he gazed upon the doctor, and the bags under them suggested a stressful and sleepless night, and implied that many more were to follow.

Clarky had never seen the man more lost, and he was glad Inspector Lestrade was not here, for the constable was certain the Inspector's presence would only make the situation worse; constantly asking petty questions that could wait until a more suitable time and insisting the detective go home and get some sleep. Clarky smiled at the image. Of course, he had already tried to persuade the detective to sleep, but the look in the man's eyes had quickly stopped Clarky from saying anything else. Clarky didn't dare ask the detective to go home, mainly because he knew that he'd never convince Holmes to leave his friend at a time like this.

"Sir?" Clarky tried again to gauge Holmes' attention. Finally, the man glanced up at the constable.

"I don't know." he muttered. Clarky sighed.

Over the time the consulting detective and the constable had been sat next to each other for the past two hours, the number of doctors assembled to help had gradually declined from eight men to just two. It was pathetic, and it infuriated Holmes. Some had given feeble excuses that they had families to look after, or other patients to attend to, whilst others had simply stated they were going out – at the crack of dawn – to get more supplies and had not returned. Holmes knew these men were not going to come back, and he had shot every one of them a dark and murderous look, leaving the majority of them shaking when they left. Watson did not deserve this. He had stayed in a deep state of unconsciousness the whole time, yet Holmes knew he was still fighting – against blood loss, pneumonia and now infection – and these so-called 'doctors' had sidled out as if there was nothing left to do. Holmes knew that if the positions were reversed, Watson would not have left these men's sides, regardless of whether he had other patients or a family. Holmes was, however, entirely grateful for the two remaining doctors, one of whom was Dr. Anstruther, and he would be happily giving them whatever reward they so desired.

Suddenly a shout from one of the doctors jolted the two men away from their thoughts. Holmes was up in an instant at the exclamation, and Clarky was not far behind him. Soon the pair had raced across the church floor and up the few steps leading to the stone table.

"What is it?" Holmes demanded of the doctors. One of them was desperately rummaging through a medical bag on the floor, while Dr. Anstruther was hastily dressing Watson's wound. It was Anstruther that now addressed Holmes.

"We need an extra set of hands. Chest compressions. Now!" he explained quickly.

"Why?" Clarky asked from behind Holmes.

Anstruther answered at the same time Holmes' brain stopped processing information.

John Watson's heart had stopped.


	7. Chapter 7

Chest compressions. Simple enough, wasn't it? And yet Holmes couldn't bring himself to do it, frozen by the image of his friend's still form in front of him. His heart had stopped. Holmes had noted the tone of Dr. Anstruther's voice when he'd told him to act quickly. His words had been laced with despair. There was no hope in them, and he knew Anstruther and the other doctor were beginning to give up.

If anything, this had fuelled Holmes and soon enough he was stepping up to the stone table and placing his hands over his Watson's heart. He began to pump his hands, attempting to coax the motionless body back to life. One, two, three. In his head, Holmes counted the number of compressions he'd applied, and after five minutes of continuously working, he began to grow worried.

Sixty-eight. "Come on," Holmes muttered.

Sixty-nine. "Come on," he repeated.

Seventy. "Come on!" he shouted. There was no response. Clarky, Dr. Anstruther and the other doctor (whom Holmes had learnt was called Collins) had ceased working and were watching Holmes sorrowfully.

Holmes' desperation turned into anger as he beat down harder on Watson's chest. "Wake up! Do you hear me? Wake up!" Nothing. Holmes continued to shout during compressions.

"John. Hamish. Watson. I order you... to. Wake. Up... Now!" Watson's eyes continued to stay closed, and his face almost looked apologetic as Holmes' eyes once again glistened with unshed tears. He silently prayed in his head for a miracle, knowing the most likely outcome of tonight was not going to be one he'd enjoy.

"John!" Blindly, Holmes thumped again and again until a pair of strong hands grasped his arms and jerked him away. Holmes' knees buckled and Clarky gently guided him to the floor. Silent tears streamed down his face as he watched Dr. Collins scurry forward and take Watson's wrist in his hands, searching for a pulse, yet knowing it was feeble. He raised his eyebrows and his jaw dropped open.

"By the Lords." A soft, Irish accent flowed out of the young man's mouth and the other men in the room strained to hear what he'd uttered. As soon as he heard him, Dr. Anstruther's head snapped up, and he rushed towards Watson, this time looking for a pulse at his neck. Slowly, a grin spread across his face, and a short laugh escaped him as he looked across the table at Holmes. The detective stared up at him incredulously, as he waited for confirmation of the impossible.

"He's a fighter," Anstruther said. "He's not going anywhere any time soon." This wasn't strictly true, as Anstruther knew the infection was still thriving and could still claim him, but the man had just seemingly come back from the dead for crying out loud.

Holmes had remained motionless, hardly daring to believe what had happened, but as Clarky clapped him on the shoulder and moved to shake the other doctors' hands, Holmes gradually got to his feet and slowly walked back to Watson. Holmes could see the slight rise and fall of his chest, and he gently placed a hand on his friend's pale yet unusually warm face. It was clear that Watson had picked up a fever. Still, Holmes couldn't stop a small smile from crossing his face as Watson's eyes fluttered beneath their lids.

"Watson? Can you hear me, old boy?" Slowly, the eyelids opened, and those green eyes that Holmes had been so longing to see for the past few hours gazed blearily at him. Holmes grasped Watson's hand and his smile soon spread to a grin as Watson slowly turned his head to look at his surroundings. Soon, he rested his gaze on Holmes again, and surveyed him.

"You look terrible." he whispered

Holmes laughed. "The same can be said for you, my friend."

Watson smiled. "I've go' an excuse."

"Indeed." Holmes answered sincerely.

"Where 'm I?" he asked, words slurring as he tried to form words.

"In a church, dear fellow." Watson seemed content with this answer, as he didn't ask why they were there, but instead endeavoured to sit upright. When he let out a hiss of pain, Holmes gently helped ease him up and sat next to him, letting Watson gradually swivel round so that his legs were dangling off the table and lean against him, gasping from the effort.

"Holmes?" Watson asked weakly.

"Mmm?"

"How bad?" he whispered.

"It's nothing. Just a scratch." Holmes repeated Watson's words smoothly, but he could tell the infection was taking its toll on his friend.

"Tha's wha' I thought. Knew it was nothin'" Watson mumbled.

"I'm sure you did," Holmes said absent-mindedly, but he was focused on something else. "Watson?"

"Mmm?"

"How do we treat the infection?" Holmes asked concernedly.

"You didn' get a doctor? Wha' 'bout you? Are you alrigh'?" Watson's tone was alarmed at the thought that Holmes hadn't been treated. Technically speaking, he was true – though the gash on Holmes' head had dried a while ago – but he cursed himself for implying that it was just the two of them there.

"No, no, Watson. There are doctors here, and I'm perfectly fine. It's just... something tells me they aren't too sure how to treat it. You know Dr. Anstruther?" Watson nodded. "He's here, but he's told me he needs your help. What do they need?"

Watson thought for a minute, his mind working slower due to the chloroform wearing off. At last, he answered. "Dis... infectan'."

Holmes bit back a sigh. "I know, but your wo–scratch is past the stage where disinfectant will help. We need something stronger." At this point, the two doctors and Clarky had stopped their conversation and were watching Holmes speak to Watson. It was true, Anstruther wasn't sure what could clean the infection – he was, after all, just a general practitioner, used to coughs and colds – and so he listened intently on what Watson said.

"Maggots." Watson quietly.

"I'm sorry?" Holmes asked, not sure if he'd heard his friend correctly.

"Maggots." Watson repeated, this time a little stronger.

Anstruther slapped his thigh. "Of course!" he exclaimed. Clarky, Collins and Holmes gave him quizzical looks. He hastened to explain, "During the war in India, maggot larvae were used to clean infections in wounds. They'd eat the dead skin and leave the wound clean. Am I right Doctor?" Watson nodded and smiled at his enthusiasm.

"But... won't they lay eggs?" Clarky asked.

Watson shook his head. "No... they're larvae. All they do is clean the woun'."

"Oh," Clarky said. "Where are we supposed to get _maggots_?"

"Larvae," corrected Holmes. "And you can easily purchase them from a tack shop. We're near the docks, so it should be easy enough to secure some."

"Right. Anybody care to come with me?" Clarky asked nervously. If he was honest, he didn't know the docks as well as he should; he was always on patrol in the main city of London, and so never had reason to venture out here.

Anstruther and Collins both muttered their assent, stating there was nothing more they could do for Watson at this present time, and so left with the constable. Clarky led them out of a side-door of the church, situated on the left wall. Like Holmes, Clarky suspected foul play was involved when the warehouse was blown up, and he didn't really want to encounter any criminals trying to tie loose ends.

Soon the door had banged shut loudly, despite only being small, and Holmes and Watson were left alone.

"How are you feeling?" Holmes asked.

"I've had better days." Watson replied. The effects of the drug had completely worn off, and he found he could think a lot clearly and movement hadn't hurt as much as it had a while ago.

"So..." Holmes said. "Have you treated many people with maggots?"

Watson smiled. "Larvae. And, no, they're not my main method, but it was necessary when I was in India. They saved many lives. How's your head?" Watson looked at his forehead critically while he spoke.

"Fine."

"Will you stop saying that? I wouldn't be surprised if you've got concussion. Let me see." Watson hopped off the stone table, but stumbled as his legs protested at the unexpected weight. Holmes leapt off also and caught Watson's arm to steady him.

"Oh, you are just full of good ideas tonight, aren't you, Doctor Watson?" Holmes said, his words dripping with sarcasm. Watson laughed properly for the first time that night, and Holmes was soon joining him. Neither of them noticed the main doors open and close quietly.

"Stay where you are. Move an' I'll shoot your brains out."


	8. Chapter 8

Holmes and Watson froze. The voice was the last one they had expected to hear. Watson glanced at Holmes and saw his own confusion and surprise reflected in Holmes' eyes. Slowly, the pair turned to see the owner of the voice and confirm their fears.

It was Samuel Davis.

It was definitely Samuel Davis, although he looked _a lot _different to the last time Watson had seen him in the warehouse. That said, the thug did have a building collapse on him. His hair was coated in dust and debris, and his face was highlighted with cuts and bruises. Davis had his right eye closed, and Watson suspected debris had found its way into the sensitive organ. There was a deep gash above his eyebrow, and blood was gushing over the closed lid and down his cheek. The wound wasn't going to close anytime soon, and if untreated, Davis would most likely slip into a coma from concussion.

Davis' clothes, like Holmes' and Watson's, were torn and shredded and also covered in dust. Part of his sleeve on his left arm had been ripped cleanly off, showing his bare forearm, also decorated with light cuts. Watson noticed that Davis held his right arm closer to his body, so that if his other hand hadn't been occupied, he most probably would have been cradling it. Broken. The arm was most probably broken, if not sprained, and the doctor in Watson was itching to treat him. The gunshot in his right shoulder from where Watson had shot him earlier had bled profusely, and the shirt covering it was a permanent crimson. He could see the sheer pain in Davis' eyes that was desperately trying to be hidden. Watson could also see rage in his eyes, and he knew this was not going to bode well for the two of them.

The fact that Davis was pointing a revolver at him also gave him a clue. His own revolver. Watson remembered dropping it when he'd realised he'd been hit, and was not surprised that Davis had found it amongst the ruins.

Out of the corner of his eye, Watson noticed Holmes inching closer towards him, as if to protect him from Davis. Watson rolled his eyes, and touched Holmes' arm reassuringly. The detective jumped and locked eyes with him, and it was then that Watson saw how much he really meant to his friend. He smiled and would have said something if they had not been interrupted by their captor.

"Well, this is all very touching, boys, but I'm afraid I've more pressin' business to attend to." Davis said in a bored tone.

"Oh? And what, may I ask, is that business?" Holmes asked coldly.

"Hmm, let me think. Oh, yes! I remember. I've 'ave two men that need to be rid of." Davis smiled a toothless grin at the pair, and Watson shivered.

"Right, right," Holmes said. "Because I'm sure your boss wouldn't be best pleased if we uncovered his plans, would he?"

Davis froze. Holmes smiled. Watson frowned. Had he missed something? Since when had Davis been in employment? The doctor cast the thought aside and decided to let Holmes continue his speech. At least one of them seemed to know what they were doing.

"What are you saying?" Davis whispered.

"I'm saying, I doubt you'll be alive for much longer should your boss find out someone knows their identity. Wouldn't be good. Wouldn't be good at all, would it Watson?"

"Nope. I know I wouldn't be too thrilled, Holmes." Watson replied, mustering up all the authority he could gather.

"Mmm, agreed." Holmes and Watson both stared at Davis, waiting for a response. Finally, he composed himself enough to keep a threatening tone constant.

"I have no idea what you're talking about." he said. Holmes raised his eyebrows.

"No? Then, if I were to tell you that your employer was someone of high-class –most likely a lord– and that he keeps you close and makes you carry out the more important jobs, I'd be lying, would I?"

Davis shuffled nervously. "Yes, you would."

Holmes snorted. "Please. Don't insult us both. I'm right, admit it."

"Yes, YES! You're correct, alright? But all the more reason to shoot you where you stand." Davis cocked the revolver.

It was Watson's turn to snort. Holmes chuckled. Davis glared at them suspiciously.

"What?" he demanded.

Watson turned to Holmes. "Holmes, how long until Clarky returns?"

The detective faced him. "Constable Clarke? Why, ten minutes, I think it was." Davis paled considerably.

"Constable?" he choked out.

Holmes nodded. "Yes, that's right. Most probably Inspector by the time the night is through, wouldn't you agree, Watson?"

"Oh yes, Holmes. Most definitely." The pair gazed levelly at Davis, daring him to make a move.

"Inspector? W-why?"

"Why? Isn't it obvious? For the capture of a wanted criminal, of course."

Davis seemed to consider his options. For a second, he lowered the gun an inch, but soon enough he'd raised it again, keeping it at its original position, trained on Watson. Holmes stiffened, but only Watson noticed.

"I could easily shoot you both here, an' throw you in the Thames, without your Constable knowing a thing." Davis snarled, tightening his grip on the trigger. Holmes shifted, preparing to throw Watson out of harm's way if needed. He had been certain his bluff would work, but now he was beginning to doubt whether Davis was as predictable as Holmes had first thought. Suddenly, Watson interrupted his thoughts.

"One minute. Holmes, where did Clarky say he was going? The telegraph office, wasn't it?" Holmes shot him a quizzical look, but agreed all the same, interested to see where this was going.

"Telegraph office?" Davis asked, looking between the two of them.

"Hmm," Watson continued. "Well, if the man's got any sense, he'll have told Lestrade."

"Lestrade? Who's Lestrade? Told him what?" Davis insisted, desperation showing in his eyes.

All of a sudden, Holmes latched on to what Watson was hinting at, and he could have hugged the man. He fought as it was to stop a grin from emerging.

"Inspector Lestrade," Watson confirmed. "And are you seriously going to tell me that you've no idea what it is that Clarky would know that is so important he ventured out in this weather to send a telegram to Scotland Yard?"

Davis knew it was useless to deny anything at this point. Control the damage. That was what he needed to do. "Who else knows?" he asked menacingly.

Holmes answered. "Nobody," but at the same time, Watson had also spoken.

"Doctor–" Holmes gently but quickly elbowed the doctor in the ribs, but Watson had already realised his mistake and clamped his mouth shut.

"Who?" Davis demanded, refocusing his gun on Watson. "Tell me!"

Watson stared at him with horror in his eyes. How could he have been so _stupid_?

Suddenly, the side-door of the church opened, and a young man rushed in, unaware of the situation before him. All three men snapped their vision on him, and Watson instantly recognised him as Dr. Collins. Collins looked up and froze when he saw Davis, still pointing the revolver at Watson. The thug turned his head to look back at Holmes and Watson, who were both staring at Collins with wide eyes, before swinging the gun round and firing once. Collins opened his mouth, but no words came out, and he crumpled to the floor.

"No!" Watson shouted, and furiously leapt towards Davis. Quickly, Holmes grabbed Watson's arms and held him back. The army doctor struggled violently against Holmes, but he kept his grip. Watson felt his wound re-open, but he did not care. All he wanted was to throttle the bastard who had coolly shot the young doctor.

Davis narrowed his eyes and pointed the gun back at Watson, who was breathing heavily and still weakly trying to fight off Holmes. "Tell me who else knows, or this time it will be you on the floor." he snarled.

"You shoot him, and it will be the end of your days, I promise you." Holmes threatened.

Davis laughed shortly. "I've got nothing left to lose; I'm a dead man, now." he admitted.

"You've never been more right." a cold voice said from the door, before a second gunshot went off and Davis fell, also silent.

Both men looked to the left to see Constable Clarke pointing a smoking revolver at the spot where Samuel Davis had been standing.


	9. Chapter 9

Holmes watched vaguely as Watson staggered as quickly as he could towards Collins, before turning his surprised expression towards Clarky. Granted, there was barely anything on this earth that ever left Sherlock Holmes astounded, but throughout the night Clarky had continued to amaze him. He hadn't shown it, but he was grateful when he turned up at the warehouse, and even more so when he arrived the church with a handful of doctors in tow. Tonight, the constable had far exceeded Holmes' low expectations of him.

"Clarky," Holmes breathed. "I've never been happier to see you in my life."

Clarky looked at him and gave an appreciative nod but did not say anything. He returned his gaze to the dead ruffian, and tenderly stepped towards him. He crouched and placed two fingers on the man's neck before looking back at Holmes and giving him a solemn nod. Holmes exhaled in relief, before walking over and standing behind Watson, who was bent next to Collins and muttering soothingly to the young doctor.

* * *

Watson stumbled towards the fallen boy and gingerly knelt next to him. He couldn't have been more than twenty, most likely only just out of medical school. His thick, black hair hung in strands around his forehead, and his long eyelashes fluttered against the pain. Currently, Collins was gasping for breath, and his face was scrunched up in pain. Watson cast his eyes downwards but did not have to search far to find the wound, for there was a bloody mess circulating around Collins' chest. It was far too close to the heart. With a glance at the boy, Watson knew he wouldn't make it. That didn't mean he wasn't going to let him suffer, though.

"Hey," Watson called softly. Collins slid his piercing blue eyes across and found Watson's. There was pain in them, but those large orbs were mainly dominated by fear.

"What's your name, son?"

"P-Pat-trick." he stuttered.

"Patrick," Watson repeated. "You keep looking at me, alright?" Collins nodded but quickly scrunched his eyes closed and let out a sharp cry of pain as Watson pressed his hand on top of Collins' shirt and held down on the wound.

"I'm sorry," Watson whispered. "But you're going to be fine, do you hear me Patrick?" Again, Collins nodded.

"Whereabouts are you from? Do I hear an accent?"

"D-Dublin," Collins confirmed. "F-from Dublin."

"What's it like there? I've always wanted to go." Watson said gently.

"'s nice. Scenery's n-nice... C-cold." Collins whispered.

"I'll bet." Watson muttered. "But it can't be as cold as here, surely?"

"N-no. 'm c-cold."

"Oh, Patrick, I'm sorry. Hang on a minute." Watson twisted and opened his mouth to address Holmes, but he found his friend was already holding out Watson's coat and gazing at him sorrowfully. He saw Clarky stood next to Holmes with a grave face, and Watson shook his head determinedly at the silent comment Holmes had given. He snatched the coat out of Holmes' grip before facing Collins. He quickly wrapped the boy in his coat, before continuing to speak.

"There you go. Is that better?"

Collins nodded and opened his mouth to speak, before the side-door opened once again, and Dr. Anstruther rushed in. He was oblivious to the scene on the floor, and only sought Holmes.

"Mr. Holmes! This blasted snow is finally beginning to melt, so I'd say we could finally leave in about forty... Patrick? What happened?" Anstruther lurched towards Collins and Watson, but Clarky quickly intercepted him, ushering him away from Collins so as not to aggravate the boy. Anstruther struggled for a while, but Clarky's grip was firm, and soon the doctor relented.

"What happened?" he repeated, this time in a whisper. Clarky led him towards the stone table and sat them both against it, explaining the events that had led to Collins' looming death. Anstruther moaned and let his head fall into his hands when Clarky described Davis' attack. Watson returned his attention back to Collins. The boy's eyelids were beginning to close, and Watson gently shook him awake.

"Patrick," Watson called. "I hadn't finished talking."

Collins almost seemed to sigh as he re-opened his eyes and looked up.

"Do you have any family?"

Collins shook his head at first, but then seemed to re-consider his answer. "I g-got a g-girl." he managed.

Watson's heart sank. "You do? What's her name?"

"C-Catherine."

"That's a beautiful name," Watson said "How long have you known her?"

"S-since childhood. G-gonna ask her to m-m-ma..." Collins coughed and more blood trickled out of his mouth. He accidently let a sob escape as his eyes glistened. He wouldn't last much longer, and the boy knew it.

"Shh, it's alright," Watson soothed. "Look at me, Patrick. You'll be fine. You hear me? Before you know it, you'll be back in Dublin with your new wife, and a long, successful career ahead of you."

Collins closed his eyes when he spoke, "My pocket," was all he said. Watson reached over and felt in his jacket. His fingers closed around a small, velvet box, and Watson closed his eyes momentarily as he drew it out.

"W-will you give it t-to her?" Collins gasped.

"I don't need to. You can do it in a few days."

Collins winced. "Please. P-promise me. Please?"

Watson smiled sadly. "Of course I will."

Collins' whole body relaxed as his eyes remained closed. "Thank you." he breathed.

Watson shut his eyes again and counted to ten. When he opened them, he saw that Collins' chest was no longer rising. He felt for a pulse, but confirmed his own fears when he found none.

"He's gone." Watson whispered.

The church was silent as Holmes finally stepped forward and touched Watson on the shoulder. He crouched down next to him and slowly raised Watson's coat over Patrick Collins' face. Then he turned to Watson.

"There wasn't anything you could have done." Holmes said softly.

"I _should_ have done something," Watson muttered.

"There wasn't enough time. Collins knew that and he was grateful that you stayed by his side."

"He wouldn't have to be grateful if I'd fixed him. What kind of doctor can't heal his own patient?"

"Don't be so stupid. You tried your best, and that's the most anyone could have asked of you."

Watson shook his head. "It was still my fault, though. If I hadn't of foolishly told Davis someone else knew, then this would never have happened. I got too arrogant, and this – this _boy _had to pay with his life. How am I supposed to live with myself knowing that an innocent life was taken because of me?"

"Stop it." Holmes said sternly, causing Watson to look up. "This was no one's fault, do you hear me? No one's. He died happily because of you, and not many people can do that, not when their comrade is facing Death itself. Are you listening?"

"Yes," Watson whispered. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Holmes replied. "Now then, we need to get your wound cleaned, so Dr. Anstruther...?"

At the back of the church, Anstruther raised his head to meet Holmes gaze, and nodded. He and Clarky stood up and waited silently at the table. Holmes raised himself also, and held a hand out to Watson, who reluctantly took it. Soon, Watson was lying back on the table with his shirt undone and Dr. Anstruther applying a small amount of chloroform. Holmes and Clarky resumed their original places against the church wall, after moving Collins' and Davis' bodies to the side, and sat down to wait.

* * *

It was another two hours before the surgery finished. Anstruther had made an incision within the wound and placed a few larvae there. He then left them for an hour before cleaning them out and re-sealing the wound. Clarky offered to walk Anstruther home, but the doctor refused, only leaving instructions to repeat the procedure once a day for a week, before exiting silently.

An hour later Watson had re-awoken, and the three of them were now sat against the cold, stone table, facing the main doors. Clarky had said in the telegram that they would be at the church, and now they waited, none of them having anything to say to each other. All three knew, however, that they would not forget this night in a while. Clarky, because he had seen a whole new side to the pair; Watson, because he had relived nightmares when seeing two men die in the space of ten minutes; and Holmes, because he had almost watched his best friend leave him.

* * *

When Inspector Lestrade and his men _finally _arrived at the church at two o'clock in the afternoon, he'd opened the vast doors to find something that had left him amazed.

The trio sat slumped against the stone table, with Clarky resting his head on Watson's shoulder, Watson resting his head on Holmes' shoulder, and Holmes resting his head on top of Watson's. All three were sound asleep, exhaustion showing clearly in their faces. Constable Clarke limply held a revolver in his lap – should anyone intrude (though a fine job he had done when Lestrade and co had noisily entered). Watson was sub-consciously clutching his abdomen, and the Inspector hated to think how much pain he had suffered... and how much was yet to come. When he moved his gaze onto the consulting detective, however, he couldn't help but give a small smile.

Sherlock Holmes was clinging onto John Watson's arm.


	10. Chapter 10

It had been a week since the events at the church had taken place, and Holmes and Watson had gratefully returned to their lodgings at 221B Baker Street. As soon as they had collapsed into their favourite armchairs, Holmes had immediately insisted Watson go to bed. Watson had willingly complied, and soon he was sleeping restfully, finally able to close his eyes without the threat of falling into a coma. Holmes had remained in the living room, and soon Inspector Lestrade had arrives, stating that Henry Reynolds (William Reynolds' twin brother, and the murder to which he had confessed) had been arrested, and the Inspector needed to take statements from Holmes and Watson and try to clear a few details. Holmes had allowed him to do so; however he had point blank refused to let Lestrade awaken Watson, firmly telling him to take the doctor's statement another day.

Over the week, another doctor had called on Watson everyday to insert the maggots, remove them, and redress the wound. Three days after returning home, though, the new doctor had noticed Watson's temperature rise, and soon he announced that the man had a fever. This was unsurprising, but the doctor still worked quickly, trying to prevent the temperature rise, but to no avail. Holmes had hovered by the doorway of his friend's room whenever the doctor worked, and winced as the man had read the temperatures to himself aloud. 37°C, 37.5°C, 38°C. The situation was far more serious than anyone had suspected, and as Watson's temperature continued to climb, Holmes' faith had continued to fall. This was a bullet wound, for crying out loud. A bullet wound that had managed to strike an organ. Granted, the internal bleeding had stopped, but the infection was at its most dangerous now, gripping Watson in a raging fever.

Whenever the doctor left, he tried to convince Holmes to send Watson to a hospital, but he had refused each time. He had explained it was because Watson disliked hospitals, which was partly true, but also because Holmes didn't want to be separated from his friend, though of course he didn't say this.

The doctor had explained to Holmes that there was nothing else he could do, he told Holmes to regularly use a cold cloth and cool Watson down, and watch out for any signs that his temperature had risen, aside from the obvious factor. Placing his bowler hat on top of his head, the doctor said he would come back in a few days time, before exiting the door.

Holmes plodded back to Watson's room, and softly crept inside. The curtains of the window were drawn, leaving the area dim and shady. Holmes made his way over to the bed, and gently placed the back of his hand on the sleeping man's forehead. Watson's brow was still on fire, and Holmes could see small beads of sweat masking his friend's pale face. Watson moaned quietly and inclined his head towards Holmes's hand, comforted by the touch. His face was set in a small frown, subconsciously trying to subdue the pain, but without success. Soothingly, Holmes ran his hand down Watson's face as he spoke.

"Fight it, old boy," he murmured. "You have to fight it."

Watson muttered incoherently, and moved his head to the other side of his pillow. Holmes continued to speak quietly, before Watson became motionless once more.

Sighing sadly, Holmes moved over to his friend's desk and removed the chair, pulling it alongside Watson's bed. He vowed then and there to never leave Watson's side until this was over, however long that may be.

In the middle of the night, at about one in the morning, Holmes was jerked awake by a sudden burst of pain in his arm, and he looked around blearily, trying to find the source. He found it when he noticed the outline of Watson tossing his head from side to side and weakly moving his arms about, muttering as he did so. Another nightmare. _Of all the times, _Holmes thought to himself. He rose from his chair and hovered over Watson, unsure of what to do. He considered gently shaking him, but he'd learnt from experience that that wasn't the best of ideas. Instead, he tried to rouse the doctor by calling him.

"Watson, wake up, dear fellow, it's just a dream." He called, but it landed on deaf ears. Hesitantly, he reached out his hand and patted Watson's arm, rubbing it up and down and in small circles. He continued to do this for about two minutes before Watson finally stopped thrashing, though he was still mumbling. Holmes pressed his hand again to his friend's forehead, and smiled in relief when he felt the noticeable drop in temperature. Watson's fever had broken. Holmes slumped back in his chair and closed his eyes.

"That's my Watson," he murmured to himself, "always the soldier."

* * *

When Watson at long last cracked open his eyes, it was to a pitch black room. Well, at first it was pitch black, but he let his eyes adjust and soon he could see outlines of objects in his surroundings. He stiffly moved his head to the side when he thought he heard breathing, and smiled to himself when he saw Holmes laid back in his chair, feet outstretched, snoring softly. If anything, the detective looked worse than he did. Stubble was beginning to grow on Holmes' chin, and there were deep bags underneath his eyes. Watson decided it best not to wake him for both their sake's, as he could still feel the effects the fever had taken on him, and so closed his eyes and slept off the many aches.

* * *

It was another two days before Watson was finally up and about the flat, and on Christmas morning, Holmes had awoken to his friend gently shaking him and holding out a small gift wrapped in brown paper. He opened it eagerly and couldn't help but chuckle as Watson ducked out of the way when Holmes threw his new copy of _A Journey through the Solar System _at him. Likewise, Watson had enthusiastically opened his gift, and laughed as he unfolded a new shirt, exactly like the one he'd ruined at the church. Coincidently, the shirt fit Holmes perfectly, and it was a little short for Watson.

The pair of them were enjoying a Christmas meal together in Holmes' room when suddenly there was an almighty crash the sitting room, and both men rushed out to see what the commotion was. One of the windows lay in pieces on the floor of the room, and a single brick was lying amongst the debris, a folded piece of parchment wrapped around it. Holmes moved over to the brick, and removed the paper, before opening it and reading it allowed to Watson.

_To Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson,_

_ It really is quite unfortunate to have to resort to these sorts of methods, but I'm afraid you have left me a very desperate man. I am fully aware of what happened on the night of the 20__th__ of December, and I have to tell you that consequences must be taken. Granted, the man Davis has received punishment enough – and for that I believe I have a certain constable to thank, but I simply cannot let the two of you live and risk exposure. I'm sure you will not take it personally, as I am a great admirer of yours, Mr. Holmes, and I have the utmost respect for you too, Doctor Watson, but these things must be done. _

_ One more thing is left to say, and that is I wish you both a very merry Christmas, and I shall remain very sincerely yours,_

_ C.E.S_

Holmes finished reading and looked solemnly towards Watson. The doctor had frozen in his place, and was staring levelly at Holmes too. Said detective, however, was also shaking with anger.

"How _dare _he!" he muttered. "How _dare _he involve you and Clarky! It was I who was snooping around, and not you two! Come, Watson," he said, grabbing his coat and hat, "the game is very much, afoot!"

**TBC**


	11. Author's Note

**Hi guys! This is just a quick note to let you know that the sequel to this story is now up, or will be in a few hours. It is called 'The Devil's Grip', and it basically picks up right where we left off, and sees the trio battling the mysterious C.E.S to try and overthrow him. It will most probably be longer that this story, but it will still contain plenty of whump for all characters, and hopefully a few cliffies. Really hope you'll read it, and of course you know how much I'll want feedback, be it constructive or complimentary. Other than that, I would once more like to thank you all **_**so **_**much for reading this, and I want to thank all of those who have commented, favourite, or alerted to this story, and I dearly hope you'll do the same for 'A Devil's Grip'. xxxxx**


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